wide.
“We’ll get on pretending to be passengers,” West whispered as they slowed their pace.
Hammer nodded, knowing exactly how this would go down.
“I’ll go first,” she said.
This was not quite what West had in mind, but the last thing she intended to do now or
ever was imply that
Hammer had forgotten how to be a cop. Hammer’s black pumps were loud on metal
steps as she smiled, climbing aboard, oblivious and on her way somewhere. People were
terrorized in their seats as the sinister young white male made his way down the aisle,
collecting wallets, cash, jewelry, and dropping them in a plastic trash bag.
“Excuse me,” Hammer politely said to anyone listening.
Magic the Man whipped around, and fixed on the fine lady in her fine black suit as she
spotted his gun. Her smile faded and she froze, as did another lady right behind her.
This was getting better. These bitches looked rich.
“Is this the bus for Kannapolis?” the older bitch in black stammered.
“This is the bus for you giving me your money.” Magic jabbed the . 22 pistol her way.
“Yes sir. I don’t want a problem,” the lady in black said.
Magic thought she seemed confused, as if she might pass out or pee in her pants. She
shakily moved closer to him, as she rooted around in her big black leather pocketbook.
Magic might just take that too, for his mama. Maybe those bad black shoes, too. Wonder
what size they were? He found out as much as he would ever need to know about those
shoes when the bitch suddenly kicked him so hard in the shin with a knife-pointed toe
that he bit his tongue. She suddenly had a big pistol out and was poking it against his
head as his gun instantly vanished from behind, and then he was face down in the aisle,
and the other bitch was jerking his wrists together and wrapping them tight with a flex
cuff.
“Man, oh man. That’s too tight,” Magic said as his shin throbbed.
“I
think my leg’s broke. ”
Innocent passengers on the bus stared slack-jawed, in speechless wonder as the two well-
dressed ladies led that son-of-a-bitch murderer off into the bright afternoon.
Police cars were suddenly roaring up, blue and red lights whirling, and all on the bus
knew the ladies somehow had made that happen, too.
“Thank you Jesus,” someone thought to say.
“Lord be praised.”
“It’s a miracle.”
“Batman and Robin.”
“Hand that bag over here so I can get my gold chain back.”
“I want my ring.”
“Everybody remain where you are and don’t touch anything,” said a cop as he boarded.
Officer Saunders hoped the chief wouldn’t notice him as he climbed out of his cruiser.
“Where were you?” she asked him as she briskly walked past. She then commented to
West, “Don’t you find that a little odd? Usually they’re all over the place when we’re
around.”
West didn’t understand it, either, but she did have more respect for the chief’s skirts and
pumps. Not only had they not slowed her up enough to matter, but the shoes, at least, had
come in handy. She was proud of her boss as they walked back inside the Presto to pay
their bill. The men at the counter were smoking now, still arguing, and oblivious to what
had just gone down next door at the Greyhound station. Not that a bunch of drug dealers
cared about a bunch of innocent people getting robbed, West thought. She threw them
another menacing look as Hammer drank one last swallow of her unsweetened iced tea
and glanced at her watch.
“Well, I guess we’d better be getting back,” Hammer suggested.
}LA
tw Andy Brazil had heard about the incident at the bus station when it crackled over his
scanner while he was working on a substantial story about the long-term consequences of
violence on victims and the relatives left behind. By the time he ran down the escalator,
got into his car and raced to the six hundred block of West Trade, the drama apparently
had ended in an arrest.
He was trotting past the Presto Grill when West and Hammer were walking out of it.